All Knowing
by Reactionary Response
Summary: "She wants to merge with him for this one moment, and she knows he wants the same. But the radio calls for all available units. Spiderman is needed one place, while Peter fights to stay in another. Gwen knows she has to let him go."
1. Chapter 1

"I've gotta go, Gwen." Peter doesn't look at her, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the tile. His laces drag behind the rubber of his high tops, and he stares like they're the most fascinating things in the world. Those bushy eyebrows furrow in frustration, concentration. All his focus is now on strategy, she can tell. He's untangling the web of villainy pouring from the radio. How will he approach? She knows: he'll swing into action, all mouth, his brain forgotten in the adrenaline. What will he say? Something witty, no doubt. Phrases that slip off the tongue and make him seem unafraid. She knows that his heart is pounding and that he's frantically dodging and that his mind is working in overdrive.

Gwen knows too much.

"Alright, Peter." She stares at this boy she has come to love. His hair hangs in scruffy clumps. He runs his fingers through it when he's stressed. She plays with it when they're alone. His chin is strong, seemingly too masculine for such a skinny neck. The whole of him is skinny, which worries her on a daily basis. Her favorite thing to do is sit with him, sharing a milkshake. Then he's totally there with her, solid and alive. She fights with him about homework, about going out, about anything other than his masked life. They struggle for normalcy in a world that has allowed the fantastic.

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want, Peter? Do you want me to cry and beg you not to go?"

"Anything would be better than this apathy."

She grabs his face then, two delicate hands cradling high cheekbones. Her French-tipped nails dig into the brown mop atop his head. Gwen wants to yank him upwards, force him to look at her. Instead she ducks down, twin baby blues peeking out behind platinum bangs. She knows she is too open, too vulnerable. Water presses behind her eyes, threatening to choke and blind her, but she hangs on. She knows that he needs her to be strong. He sees too much fear and worry from his aunt. Gwen is his rock, and proud of her power.

Sometimes she wishes that he wasn't Spiderman, and that they could go to the homecoming dance without him layering blue and red under his tuxedo. But she knows that the hero is an integral part of him. If the powers hadn't come he would have found another way to put himself in danger. Since she saw him step in front of Flash's fist for an acquaintance, she knew. A cop's daughter-a _police captain's_ daughter- understands justice. A strong sense of morality was imbedded in her.

Her father doesn't come to her mind often, mostly because it feels like he is still there. Her little brothers still set one too many plates at the dinner table. Her mother still makes enough food for five of them. His absence is most felt in the morning, where he would drive his children to work in his police car. The boys would hang their heads out the window like dogs, lapping up the wind and laughing in time to the siren. Gwen would sit pristinely, hands folded primly in her lap, unsure if she was embarrassed or proud. Captain Stacy would catch her eye in the mirror and send a conspiratory wink before gunning the engine. Then Gwen would feel the thrill of excitement, a sedate sort of danger flittering in her stomach. Maybe she would be a cop, or work in the forensics department; anything to feel the same scream of exhilaration building in her throat.

Now her boyfriend flies into action every time there's hint of danger. She thinks about getting him a police badge as a joke. Sometimes she seriously thinks of giving him her father's. He works so hard to protect the city, certainly as hard as any official. But he doesn't receive the accolades or the tickertape parades. All Peter gets is a black eye and Jazzy Jonah labels him a menace. He pretends not to care, hiding the _Daily Bugle_ behind a science textbook she knows he has already read. Gwen likes to swat him with it when she's frustrated, like training a wayward dog. He laughs then, lets her see that awkward smile that breaks open the cut on his lip. She'll come to him, kissing his bruise, lightly lapping a bead of blood; showing her unspoken appreciation. Then she nuzzles his neck, gently sucking and biting until they engage in a different kind of fight.

And she does fight. Gwen doesn't let Peter fall into easy kisses, like the constantly conquering hero. Her tongue is as sharp as her words, and she pushes him. She wants him to get angry, to pour all of his irritation at the city-its people, its villains, its inability to let him sleep- into her. That's when too-big hands lift her by her bottom, or push her against the wall, or throw her down. That's when she can grin cheekily into their kiss. It's how she knows she affects him, and that he's there with her again and not mentally running through his other fights.

Peter tells Gwen she knows him too well.

Sometimes he stops calling her. Those are the times she's not sure if he's too worn down to try and be her boyfriend, or if he's afraid. The monsters that go bump in the night are real to him. He has to answer every other call, so he stops making his own. Gwen lets him be until she can't stand it. Peter lingers in her life: his smell on her sheets, his notes on her desk, his hoodie on her back. When he's gone there's nothing to remind her that he will come back, no normal routine to help her breathe again. She knows that he needs her. Peter needs a tie to his humanity, a reminder that he needs to take off the mask. But she's not quite sure if he always _wants _her, or if she is part of the debt repayment to her father. Her smile is genuine when he's there. But he's stuck with her, knowing that he broke his original promise to a dying man. His new goal is to make her happy, knowing that that's what her father would have wanted.

Once, she had to see him. Gwen took the subway to Queens, wrapping his sweatshirt around her until only her bangs shone in the fluorescent light. As she wandered the streets to his house, hidden in the dim twilight, she wondered if this is how he felt. Almost ethereal, as if the world couldn't touch him if they couldn't see him. Gwen cloaked herself in the shadows, playing Spiderman. She thought of what she would say: "Well now, what do we have here? Didn't anyone teach you how to play nice?" But of course, she didn't come across any crimes. Queens was quiet. The sun dripped red as it sank below the horizon. And then she was in front of his doorstep, being welcomed by chipped burgundy stairs. This was so his world, saturated with the colors of his costume. Gwen felt too blond, as if she didn't fit his custom paint palette. But she squared her shoulders, and knocked. An older woman, whose eyes crinkled in excitement, pointed her up another set of stairs and to a room down the hall to the left. There was no need to knock there, or maybe she feared he wouldn't answer. Gwen pushed open the door and found Peter, curled in his bed. The covers spread across the floor, the rest of the room a complete mess, and the single breathing being fetal. She knew then, that he didn't want to her to see him weak. He liked how he looked in her eyes: brave, strong, a man taking responsibility of his fate. Here he was still a teenager, plagued by death. No matter what he did, Spiderman would fail. A building would fall, a bank would get robbed, and someone would die. Peter Parker had to face all that in the harsh light of day. Gwen knew she too would be paralyzed. So she didn't say a word, but climbed into the bed with him. She was the big-spoon to his little, wrapping her arms and legs around him until he could hear, see, smell nothing but her.

"Gwen?" Peter's eyes were on hers now, questioning. Where had she gone? She doesn't know how to answer that look, how to convey her confidence in him. All she wants is to go with him, to help him in any way she can. She has thought that one day she would be some sort of partner, creating gadgets and gizmos for Spiderman. But there is no time for that now. She just needs him to know.

"I love you." The words are too simple for what she wants to express. Maybe it would be better if they were at the top of a building or on her fire escape, rather than the hallway of Midtown. But the clock is ticking and these moments are precious. He has to go.

Besides, it is enough. Peter's hands stop clenching at his sides, and clutch her waist. The force knocks the air out of her lungs, but it feels good-_real_. His lips are on hers before she can draw a new breath. Desperate and rough they move, until she has to break contact with a dry sucking sound. An inhale, and then down again they went. He isn't gentle, forcing her mouth open with his tongue, her lips grinding against his teeth. Their bodies slam together awkwardly. Peter dips down, Gwen bends her back. They are almost horizontal even as they stand. And the kiss just deepens, the uncomfortable position having no effect on its urgency or need. She wants to merge with him for this one moment, and she knows he wants the same. But the radio calls for all available units. Spiderman is needed one place, while Peter fights to stay in another. Gwen knows she has to let him go. Her hands travel down his face and neck to reach his chest, where she gives a slight push.

"Go on, Bug Boy."

Another kiss, this one chaste and much too quick, before he runs down the hall and out of sight. Gwen's hands hang in mid-air before she clasps them together and places her chin on top. _He looks good coming and going_, she thinks wryly.

Footsteps break her reverie. She refuses to turn; she knows who they belonged to.

"Well wasn't that just the most romantic thing you've ever seen?"

"Remember your promise, Harry. If I do this, you won't hurt him."

He laughs, long and low. It breaks into a cough and she knows his whole body shakes and convulses.

"Trust me, Gwendolyn. Your betrayal will hurt him more than enough."

Gwen wishes she knew nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Green sludge swirls around and around, creating a small tornado in the beaker. Gwen is transfixed, completely enraptured by her creation. The liquid feels alive in her hands, heated and angry as she finishes mixing. She thinks it wants to yell at her. _Leave me alone_, it would say, _haven't you done enough?_ And really hadn't she? Gwen was so close to destroying her life that it was freeing. She just needed to finish this—potion, she guessed—for Harry and then she could succumb to oblivion.

"You should hurry, Gwendolyn." His voice calls out to her and she shivers. The strength is fading, and the sound splitting like too-dry wood. The part of her that still feels, feels pity. The rest of her just closes her eyes and prays that she can finish this.

"Don't you think I'm trying, Harry?" The tumbler steams in her hands, spitting smoke. Gwen inhales for a moment. No matter what it is used for, it is all hers. That is one thing Harry can never take away, he cannot take credit—not that he wants to. No, he prefers the world to know that Gwen Stacy created his "goblin juice," that she made the monsters terrorizing New York City. And he is excited that the actual recipe will die with her, that the only way to concoct the dreaded serum is by taking a sample of his blood. This last injection is the answer to his prayers. He will no longer be weak or frail, but strong, invincible. He does not know that it will kill him, that Gwen will kill him and be glad to do so. The disaster will die with both of them.

She grabs the syringe, eyes it with distaste. All her years interning at Oscorp reduced to this moment of playing God. Never had she thought to use science to destroy. Gwen remembers the little chemistry from her mother and father. That Christmas morning had been uncharacteristically brilliant. The sun cut through every shadow of the towering green pine, finding her eyes underneath its overlapping branches. She had been so excited to share this holiday with her new baby brother that they had slept among the wrapped gifts and sharp needles. Together Gwen and Gary had huddled into a single sleeping bag, giggling into the dawn as they waited for Santa. For too long they had tried to keep their eyes open until their lids crashed onto their puffed under eye circles and fell into a fast sleep. They awoke in delight, finding that along with the sunlight, they were greeted by a new pile of presents. Older Gwen felt slightly abashed at her younger self's delight in _Santa!_ But it was a child's nature to feel excitement, to believe. Just because she had become disillusioned along the way did not mean she forgot a previous love of magic. And there was magic in that chemistry set. Gwen had magic in her fingertips, in the ability to make things bubble and spark and change color. She and Gary squealed in delight as their parents helped them create new substances.

That awe only grew as Gwen learned to read and could see how things were made. The next Christmas was set of chemistry books, and the one after that a gift certificate to the science supply store, since she knew more than her parents about what she needed. Gwen didn't know when, but somewhere along the way, science had become an irreplaceable part of her life, almost a member of her family. When she was confused or lost, she would turn to one of her many books and find the answer. It was concrete, it was stable, and one day she knew she would contribute.

Of course, that was how this whole mess started. Harry's cough had scared her, she could literally feel the wheeze that cut through his ribs and strained his throat. They had been friends for so long, hanging from the monkey bars together since pre-school that she knew she had to help. It didn't hurt that Harry's father had access to the best science facilities in the nation. Not only would she get to save her friend, but she could pretend she was a real scientist. So many dreams being fulfilled at once.

And then there was Dr. Connors; a legend in the field of biogenetics, an imaginative thinker, making insane strides in the field. Some days Gwen could only watch him with the same awe from her days of the chemistry set, her eyes wide in appreciation as he scribbled equations on the white board with his single steady hand. Maybe she should have known that a mind so brilliant would eventually turn. She had seen ideas bounce around his brain so quickly that, when trying articulate, his words would overlap and jumble. Gwen would laugh at her admired professor, _"please slow down before you break the sound barrier," _and he would chuckle along with her. Then he would break down each thought, explaining slowly so she could take notes or type into the simulator. What a pair they had been, both more human than analytical robot. They understand the life repercussions of their research, Harry never far from her thoughts and his non-arm an invisible reminder. Even after he had gone crazy, killed her father and let her Peter be blamed, Gwen stilled liked to turn over the mental snapshots of her second father. Somewhere, he still lived, trapped inside his own mind. She had thought that one day she might help him too. The antidote for his body could help his brain, she just knew it. But she had run out of time.

"Gwendolyn. You're trying the very little patience I have left. There's no point in stalling any longer, your boyfriend isn't coming. Your father is dead. Oscorp is my domain. What are you waiting for?"

"Harry, you know as well as I do that you have to let this cook. Otherwise it could kill you." Months ago she would have swatted his arm, more teasing than begging. But now she needs these last few minutes. Yes, she is going to kill him. But she plans a death that is instant, painless. Gwen has no taste for suffering or torture. And she still has a few things to do.

"I am invincible, Gwen. You have made me immortal! I hope you will take comfort in that. Now, give me that." His hand spastically tremors as he tries to grab the beaker. Luckily the goo is thick enough not to spill immediately over the sides as she raises it out of reach. It just oozes to the lip and threatens to fall. Gwen looks away, knowing that if any drops to the floor Harry will drop to his knees and lap it like a dog.

"You can't inject yourself" she says while turning her back to him. He is too slow, too sick to follow her movements and just huffs impatiently. It takes a minute for the gunge to drip painstakingly into the syringe. The clock ticks loudly, every passing second Gwen reminds herself to cherish.

She first thinks of everything she is glad to be leaving. Never again will the pain in her mother's eyes haunt her dreams. Gwen's continued support of Spider-Man will no longer rip the last shreds of Helen's heart. No more screaming matches that the boys break up by webbing their legs with the newest "Spider-Man" silly string from the drug store. Their tears will stop staining legal documents and homework and every available piece of furniture. Gwen will never have to face the pitying looks of her friends when they mention that their boyfriends are meeting their fathers and "won't that be horrible, Gwen? I mean…" No more seeing Peter's cuts and bruises after nasty fights, no more yelling at Flash to grow up, no more worrying about getting into college.

Without realizing it, tears spill down her cheeks. They slip past the curve of her nose, track down her cheeks, and choke her. Openmouthed, angry sobs threaten to kill her before Harry does, before the Green Goblin does. Gwen idly wonders where the rasping is coming from, that throaty howl of a wounded alley cat.

"Gwendolyn, don't be so dramatic. Really, I promise you won't feel a thing." Harry wobbles closer, his hand hovering just above her shaking back. Before she can scream at him not to touch her—salvation.

"I swear to God, if you lay a hand her I'll kill you"

The one thing Gwen knows better anything: the sound of Peter's voice.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, puny Parker came to save the day." Harry grips tightly to the edge of a gleaming white lab top. His whole body is tense, tuned like piano wire; stretched so thin that his knuckles change color to match the counter. Yet even through his convulsions Harry glares, and Gwen feeling his anger for both Peter-for foiling his plans-and his own body for its weakness.

"Walk away, Harry." Peter's voice echoes, bouncing off the high ceilings. For a science nerd, he seems out of place in this lab. He is too big, too heroic among the mundane. Yes, the equipment is state-of-the-art, but Peter is beyond that, above it. A saucy confidence fills the room and marks his presence as something more than manmade. He is a combination of technology and human evolution, a boy who defies science and yet pushes its possibilities Sure, Gwen is romanticizing before the inevitable bloodshed, but she cannot help but notice how handsome Peter is. His thin chest juts out with pride, his fists once again balled at his sides. Arms hang too-long down his frame, hiding the strength that Gwen knows he has. A strength Harry so desperately desires. The irony would be funny if it was not tragic.

"Walk away? You're a fool, Parker, if you think this is anything to walk away from. For so long I've been sick, unable to be simply a teenager. These last six months in Paris, hooked up to an IV, my food fed in through my veins. Do you know I could feel every moment passing? The clock would tick and another drop of that vile medicine would drip into my system and another second my life was taken from me, passed before my eyes. Now, thanks to your darling Gwen, I'm going to be greater than a silly teenager. Vitality will return to me in spades! Yes, Parker, I'm going to be more than a man."

"Are you done with your super villain speech?" Peter scoffs, "because I'd really like to get to the part where I kick your ass."

"Oh really? And what could you do that Gwendolyn couldn't?" A moment passes of tense silence, as Peter looks at Harry skeptically. Unconsciously, Peter scratches the nape of his neck in question, and Gwen desperately stifles the urge to snort. Of course, they are in a room with a maniac and he has to unravel this new mystery. She sees the pieces behind his eyes shuffling their order, trying to figure out why Harry would think Gwen more capable of fighting than he. But then Peter snaps back into Spider-Man, sliding his eyes to Gwen as if to shrug: "Bad guys, amIrite?" She wants to mirror him and pretend she has no idea what is going on. But she knows her own pale irises project a sort of helplessness, which she fears sparks the flame that makes him turn to Harry and say:  
"Despite your doubt in me, I have a few tricks up my sleeve-"

"He doesn't know!" Gwen jumps in before he can finish, her heart flying to her throat as she sees him reach for the webshooters beneath the sleeves of his henley.

Harry starts to cackle, throwing his head back and letting beads of feverish sweat drip down his face before his body rejects the action. His knees crumple underneath him and slam into the marble floor.

"I would feel bad for you, Harry. But all I can think about right now is that you look like more of a gnome than a goblin." Peter crosses his arms across his chest, caterpillar eyebrows creating a shadowed ledge over his eyes. A smug smile quirk his lips, once again turning his angry fire sarcastic, ironic, and so Spider-Man that Gwen wishes it were under the mask. She wants Peter, with his stumbling words and awkward jitters and fleeting grins. Spider-Man does not factor into that equation, though he filters a little more into Peter's life each day. Though Gwen likes the jokes, those are pure Peter.

Too bad Harry does not see the humor, as he howls in outrage and shoves himself off the tile. He charges Peter, all adrenaline, all fury. A fist rises in anticipation of contact, which Peter easily grabs and follows the momentum of. He whips his arm back, readying to throw Harry behind him, but Harry uses his other fist to slug Peter in the stomach. Despite his spider strength, Peter doubles over and clutches his abs. Harry then strikes again, butting his forehead against Peter's.

Gwen watches in horror as the two former friends continue to fight. She knows she should do something, but just minutes ago she was about to die, and she cannot absorb the shock that she might live. And so as Gwen splutters to regain her courage, Peter flips Harry onto his back, forcing the breath to leave his body in a harsh wheeze. The weight of Peter on his sternum and the press of Peter's forearm against Harry's throat keeps him from drawing in air. Large, purple spots start to mottle Harry's skin until he claws at Peter, frustrated tears leaking out the edge of his eyes as he struggles to breath.

"Stop! Stop it!" For once, Gwen does not know why she stops him; she was going to kill Harry anyway. Partially, she is just so happy to have her voice again; hearing it rip from her diagram is sweet relief from the fear she had lost it forever. Mostly she thinks that her planned punishment was not as angry as Peter's, she liked to think that it would more release Harry from his frail body than damn him. This, the horrible gasping like a dying fish and the way Peter watches Harry's life slip from his face, is too gruesome.

"Peter, please." She cannot let her boyfriend commit murder. He has seen so much death and he always returns from a battle covered in blood. Gwen knows he cries sometimes, silent tears that soak into the shoulder of her woolen sweater when she holds him. And that is from the damage done by others. How would he survive if another's blood coats his hands, and he holds the responsibility? She fears it would break him, destroying the fragile normalcy he has created outside of the costume.

Maybe she's a hypocrite. Gwen understands that she is a major part of Peter's civilian routine, that she reminds him of his humanity. And yet, here she was, plotting the death of their mutual friend. The death of an enemy she helped create. Gwen is not clean, not perfect or deserving of the pedestal Peter puts her on. She _knows_ this. But she tries; she desperately wants to be his redeemer. And so it is relief that she sees Peter lighten the pressure on Harry's larynx, allowing him small gulps of oxygen.

"Jesus, Gwen, the way you told me you were here-that note in my backpack-I mean, it looked-It sounded like...were you-are you telling me goodbye?" Peter now grips Harry by the throat, the hand she knows as so gentle has become rough, still unforgiving.

"Peter, I...I thought I would never see you after I wrote that." She wrings her hands, tugging at her knuckles. Dry, worried skin cannot take the abuse and cracks in thin, bloody fissures. "I wanted to help you for once, protect you like you always save me."

Underneath Peter's chokehold, Harry snorts, even rolls his eyes.

"Oh, you have something to say, not-so-jolly-green-or-giant?" Peter almost spits in Harry's face.

"Peter, don't press this, please." Gwen tastes the unfamiliar bile of begging; now more nervous than when he was going to kill.

"You wanted me to stop, Gwen." Finally, Peter fully releases Harry, though his hands still hover near his neck. "So? What's so funny that you can laugh as I strangle you?"

"The idea that you protect Gwendolyn!" Harry bursts out, as if all his previous air was saved for this one statement. "I mean, my god, you're puny to begin with, but the fact that she's Spider-Man makes it all-"

Peter cuts off Harry's sentence with a hard punch to the nose, knocking him unconscious. Absentmindedly, he wipes a spurt of Harry's blood on his jeans, and stands; all the while green and blue eyes hold each other, unflinching. Her eyes are wide in shock, the irises swimming in the white of her exposed sclera. His are narrow, tenacious, determined.

Somehow he stands in front her, moving just a touch too fast for her eye to follow. An arm sneaks around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Gwen always knew they fit together like puzzle pieces, but now he pulls her so tight that she thinks that they merge into a single organism. She is only a limb to his massive tree trunk, and does not bend to the wind, but to his passion. Peter is merciless in his assault. He feeds her wet, open-mouthed kisses, tongues tangling, fighting for dominance. For once in her life, Gwen melts into him, offering up her body to his hunger. Just minutes ago she had thought she would never see him again; never again feel the heat of him. And now he is so present: large palms cupping her bottom, hoisting her onto the lab table, shoving her blue, polka-dotted skirt up around her waist, wrapping boot covered legs around him like vines, and somehow yanking down her tights in the process. It is so immediate, so fast compared to their normal slow boil, that all Gwen can think is _now_-nownownow.

It's all Peter, throwing off heat like a furnace, cargo pants barely hanging onto slim hips, clever fingers gripping her upper ribcage, thumbs teasing the undersides of her breasts. Gwen clings to the wayward strands of hair at the nape of his neck, a barnacle holding for dear life. She is going to be absorbed by him, burned in this new fire. Never has she felt so alive, all her senses ringing-no, pounding against the surface of skin to experience more.

And then he's inside her, not warm and tender, but with fierce, enraged thrusts. Normally Peter is careful, all soft palms and caution of his super strength. But he holds her now like he does not care that he could break her, bruising her back as he holds her in place by her shoulder blades. In response, Gwen only pulls him tighter, hooking her ankles at his lower back and fisting her hands until his hair stands on edge. And just when she's about to scream for release, he stops; his tip poised at her entrance. Gwen's body hums, vibrates in anticipation of his next thrust. But his eyes are holding hers again, demanding that she listen.

"I am so mad at you, Gwen."

"I-" She's nonsensical, all her blood and brains pooling to a jumbled mess in her lower abdomen.

"You were going to leave me." Peter does move then, burying himself so deep inside her that his hips almost ram into hers.

"I-"

"All this to protect my identity? Pretending to be Spider-Man? Offering yourself as sacrifice to Harry?" He pulls out. Gwen grits her teeth to keep from whimpering. "I would die a thousand deaths; have the whole world know my identity as long as I knew you were safe."

Is she panting? No. That dull thudding in her ears is the clanging of her heart against her ribcage, swelling to love him more than it already does.

"I. Love. _You._" With each word, Peter pounds into her. And then they are scrambling for purchase, using each other to stay grounded even as they both come apart. Gwen has no words. She knows that there are a million things she can say, but none of them capture the depth of their connection, how absolutely-desperately-she loves him, and he her.

Thankfully, Peter acts first. He brushes the loose tendrils of hair from her face, replaces both of their clothing, and jumps onto the counter so she can lean into him. Their legs dangle off the side, twisting together, an unconscious game of footsie. His lips place a few soft kisses by her ear, their sweaty, dewy cheeks brushing like butterflies.

He whispers, "Don't ever leave me."

Of course, it is then that Gwen feels the pinch of a needle at the back of her neck, jamming itself in the narrow connection between spine and skull. Green sludge undulates into her veins, sluggishly infiltrating her system. Now she knows her time has run out. All Gwen wants is one last moment, something perfect to leave him with. She cups his cheeks with shaking hands. Is it fear? Exhaustion? She's not sure. But her gaze is unwavering. She tries to tell Peter nonverbally that she really knows now. That she believes in them, in _him_, and that is why she has to let go of him. He has more to do, and her time is gone.

Harry's laughter breaks through the thick cotton expanding in her ears and the world quickly darkens to black. Yet Gwen grabs onto her last moment to tell Peter:

"I never want to."


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning! There are spoilers contained in this chapter for the series. **

* * *

Gwen's mind flies into consciousness like a car hits a wall. Abruptly she realizes she is not dead. But her body weighs heavy. Her limbs do not move, not even her eyelids open. But Gwen's ears slowly absorb the sounds around her; car horns shrieking, children crying, the heavy _whoosh_ of wind. She feels it biting into her bare skin, and the few uncovered parts of her arms dimple with goosebumps. And despite the rapid thud of her heart against her ribcage, Gwen cannot help but wonder: _Is this Heaven? This unseeing sensation of flying above the world's troubles?_ And then laughs in her head about her pretentious metaphysical ponderings.

Yes, Gwen knows she should be more concerned, that this situation is not the least bit normal. The idea that she has given up hope has alarm crawling along the edge of her spine, but she is so removed from it all, as if her soul hovers just above her trapped body. Maybe it is that Peter's voice is so prominent in all the cacophony that keeps her calm. The soft whisperings of: "It's alright, I'm coming for you, don't worry Gwen, don't worry" whirl around her in a continuous, nonsensical loop. And that is when she realizes, with a sickening drop of her stomach, that she is not in the familiar webbed clasp of Spider-Man, but the nails of the hand around her ankle puncture her skin. Her hair does not hang in its customary ponytail, but flows free and pulls her head even farther backwards with its weight.

Gwen now understands that she is upside down, blood pooling to the top of her head. It's a heady rush, reminding her of the first night she had gotten drunk-the night that had brought Peter back to her.

He had told her that he did not want her, that he "couldn't do this anymore," as tears for his absence left tracks down her face. Gwen had been so mad, so impossibly angry at both Peter and her father, the two most important men in her life promising to leave her. _And how silly was a promise to a dead man_, she had fumed, _when he's not alive to know the difference_. It was so easy to hide her pain in her fury, to blame Peter for the emotions she could no longer control. It was also easy to call Flash and ask him where the next party was. He happily gave her the address, quietly saying how brave she was. All of it made her sick, the pity leaving a sour taste in the back of her throat. So she drowned that, and everything else, in a bottle of vodka the size of her face. But even 90 proof liquor could not erase the pain of the last few weeks. Gwen just became more sullen, though certainly more irresponsible. She held onto the railing of her fire escape and tipped half her body forward until she balanced like a human teeter-totter. Then she screamed. And screamed, and screamed, and screamed until her voice gave out and all she could make was a hollow whine. That's how Spider-Man found her, tears dripping to the pavement way below, only her tiptoes grazing the iron landing.

"G-Gwen? What the hell are you doing?"

"Like you care." Okay, so maybe that was the vodka talking. But the folding of the mask over his too-large eye-lenses, like he was hurt, really pissed her off. He had no right to be offended, no right to even be there. "What do you want Bug Boy?"

"I was worried about you." He rarely stammered in the mask, suffused with hero confidence.

"How sweet." She leaned farther forward, placing her weight in her hands, letting her hair fall in front of her face. Gwen did not want him to see her cry anymore. She had been strong for her family and stoic in front of her friends, she could certainly keep it together around him. At least, she could certainly hide how much he still affected her.

"Can you please get down from there?"

"No thanks, I prefer this view to the one behind me."

"Come on, Gwen, this isn't funny anymore."

"I'm not here for your entertainment, Peter." The word play was getting on her nerves, though more likely it was his proximity. She could the heat of his breathe when he huffed in frustration.

"Gwen-"

"Don't touch me!" Her body whipped around, arms lashing down on his hands that had grabbed her hips. But he was like steel, his grip unbreaking. So now they were nose to mask, her hands resting on his spandexed forearms. It was too intimate, too familiar, and yet too foreign after all these weeks apart.

"I swear I never-"

"I don't want your promises, Peter." With that, he released her, lowering her bare feet onto the cold metal. Gwen normally would have shivered, have pressed closer to him out of instinct, but the part of her that still yearned for his touch was denied by her more logical hurt.

"I miss you."

"Please. Please don't say that to me. I can't-Oh god" Gwen choked on her own voice and covered her face with her hands.

"I can't stand to see you like this. To know that I haven't even tried to give you the comfort you gave me when Uncle Ben died. Gwen, I am so, so sorry. And I know that no apology can ever make up for what I did, but I can't stand this anymore."

She didn't even look up at him, refused to lower her hands or raise her head. Her heart punched her angrily, telling her to trust what she so desperately wanted to believe.

"It would have been so simple, you know. But you broke my heart. And not when you left, but when you gave me hope that this was all over and then nothing changed. 'But those are the best kind' broke my heart, Peter. I thought that your guilt was over, that we could be together. But you just walked away and pretended that it never happened-that I didn't exist. And out of everything, that's the worst. It might be selfish, but I hated that you both felt I didn't matter. You two made a decision without even consulting me, not really thinking of me. And no matter what I said or did, I was just...inconsequential."

His hands were overheated, a little sweaty and sticky, as they pulled on her fingers. Gwen resisted, but Peter persisted until she was staring into his dark lenses.

"That's not fair, you know. You get to wear a real mask part of the time. I have to work so hard to hold together, and then everything just unravels in front of you. You make so angry." Gwen's voice held no heat, only exhaustion.

"Not to be cheesy, but you're the only one who knows everything about me too." He let Gwen pull at the edge of his mask, and then off his face, revealing a wry smile.

"You're not allowed to make me laugh right now." But the corners of her mouth quirked up, and her eyes were less guarded than before.

"You don't make staying away from you easy, Gwen."

"Good."

And with that he closed the small amount of distance between them, laying his lips gently against hers. She was frightened by the kiss's reverential quality, as if he was praying to her for strength. Well she was damn sick of Peter being strong; she wanted him as useless and upset and hormone-addled as she. So she pressed into him, locked her fingers into the messy curls at the nape of his neck with her palms against the underside of his chin, and yanked. Peter fell into her. Together they fought, all teeth and tongue and never satiated hunger. Then he planted small kisses along her neck as his sticky fingers snuck under her button down. She let him cup her breasts, allowed him a single hiss of satisfaction before whipping away. In the seconds Peter took to blink in confusion, Gwen had opened the window to re-enter her room and only turned to snap out:

"And _those_ are the best kind."

But Peter would not let her go. He hustled to the window, pressing upwards on the casing before she could close and lock it. They wrestled for a moment, never breaking narrowed eye contact. But Peter called on his Spidey strength and jammed the window upwards, hitting the top with a clang. Gwen refused to cede ground, not giving Peter space to enter the room. He pressed on, crouching in the open portal before slowly stalking forward. She watched him warily, a prey eyeing its hunter for the moment to run. Peter never gave her the chance to escape, again placing both piano hands on her hips. This time his grip was iron.

"I made the mistake of giving you up once, Gwen. I'm not stupid enough to do it again."

And so despite her multitude of regrets, never going to college, never inventing or discovering something to rock the scientific community, never getting married, never having kids, never growing old with Peter; Gwen,in her prone state, feels unbelievably lucky. She has loved and been loved more than she ever thought possible. And though it is all so cliche, Gwen is no longer frightened of death. She hears the roar of the water as it slams into the side of the bridge (she wonders if it's the Brooklyn. She hopes her family cannot see this), and the screech of the wind as it rushes past her ears. Her stomach is in her throat as she falls, Peter's calls follow her down: "Gwen-No! I'm going to stop you before you hit the water-" His mumbles: "I've got to, I've got to-"

Impossibly, ridiculously, her love swells inside her for this boy who talks to himself and it is enough.

_Snap!_

And Gwen knows nothing anymore.

* * *

_Sorry if there are typos. I was just so happy to finally complete a story! _

_Thanks to all those who stuck with this story, and to those who reviewed. Much love- RR_

_Reviews would be very, __**very**__ appreciated _


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